


Tough times (we can do anything, together)

by waterbird13



Series: Writing our own Vows [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Injury, M/M, married Wincest, possible permanent injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt gone wrong leaves Sam and Dean with injuries. Dean is recovering, but Sam and Dean start to deal with the idea that Sam may possibly never fully recover, leading them to consider some new options in their life. As always, they take care of each other and give each other what they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tough times (we can do anything, together)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all--  
> This is the long-overdue tenth installment of Writing our own Vows. In this section, Sam and Dean are both injured, and it is unknown if Sam will be able to fully recover from his injury. The injuries are not graphic, and this is far more about Sam and Dean taking care of each other than it is about injury.  
> Warnings for graphic, male/male, incestuous sex. Warnings for married, domestic Wincest, and non-graphic injuries. Dean bottoms in this fic.  
> I believe that's it. Hope you like it!

Sam wakes up for real three hours, fifteen minutes after he gets out of surgery.

Dean’s there, of course, stitched up with his arm in a sling. He’ll be fine, although they would have perhaps liked to keep him a bit longer. But a couple of painkillers later and he’s good to go, and nothing will keep him from Sam’s bedside.

Sam woke up twice already, dazed and confused and in a great deal of pain, before slipping back under.

When he finally wakes up for real, Dean is clasping Sam’s hand with his still-good left hand, stroking his thumb along Sam’s knuckles. He can tell Sam’s waking because his brow crinkles, tensed and lined with pain.

Sam’s awake soon enough, and Dean’s hopes that he’d wake cracking jokes and making snarky comments are dashed. He just kind of groans, closes his eyes against the weak light, and asks, in a cracked voice, “what happened?”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean hastens to assure him, and Sam clearly doesn’t have the breath to spare, but he turns and gives Dean a look. That’s not what I asked.

Dean takes a deep breath. “You remember the Ghouls?” he asks, and Sam nods. “They got a few chunks out of your leg, Sammy. You just got out of surgery a couple hours ago.”

“You?” Sam asks, and Dean half-lifts his arm. “Gonna be fine. Not gonna be driving righty for the next week or so, but I’ll be fine, Sammy. You I’m worried about.”

“Thought you said I was gonna be fine,” Sam challenges, and Dean grimaces.

“Sure,” Dean nods. “Once you’re up and walking again. I mean, you’re gonna live, you’re gonna be fine. Just…worried me for a bit, there, Sammy.”

Sam grins at Dean in what’s probably meant to be a reassuring manner, but the grin fades quickly, replaced with pain. Sam grits his teeth.

Dean squeezes Sam’s hand. “Sleep, Sammy,” he says quietly.

It takes a few minutes, but Sam is eventually pulled back under, and Dean continues to stroke his thumb against Sam’s hand until he too falls asleep.

 

They throw them out three days later, once it’s clear that Sam’s wounds aren’t infected (a miracle of modern medicine, Dean thinks, considering what did its level best to chomp Sam’s leg off). A nurse wheels Sam out, Dean being pretty much unable to steer a wheelchair one-handed, and she helps Dean get Sam into the passenger’s seat. Dean throws the cane the hospital provided into the back, then gets into the driver’s seat.

Usually, when Dean drives left handed, it’s because his right is otherwise occupied, fingers laced with Sam’s, and it kind of irks him to have one hand out of commission, but he follows doctor’s orders and leaves the sling on because he knows Sam will complain if he doesn’t.

“Want some lunch?” he offers about an hour into the drive.

Sam looks down at his leg and sighs. “Drive-thru?” he asks timidly and Dean nods.

“Sure thing, Sammy. You want one of those chicken sandwich things?” he asks, eyes already scanning for a McDonalds.

Sam nods, and Dean leaves it there.

Sam can walk with the cane. The nurses at the hospital got him to try it a bit and Dean has seen him do it, and he got the hang of it pretty quickly. 

Dean wonders if this is going to become a thing, if he’s going to have to coax Sam out and about while he’s dependent on the cane, until his leg heals and he doesn’t need it anymore.

And that, of course, assumes that point ever arrives, that Sam’s leg heals enough that Sam will be able to get around without the cane.

Because the doctors warned them it might not, that Sam may always have enough of a limp to make a cane necessary. And Dean hates to think of how Sam will react, should that become true.

But for now, he can get Sam a chicken sandwich and get himself a couple of burgers and talk Sam into splitting some fries, and he can worry about things that are weeks away yet in the future.

Sure enough, Sam eats a handful of the fries in addition to his sandwiches, and Dean pulls his arm out of the sling so he can eat and drive. Sam looks guilty at that, as if it’s his fault that it’s happening, so Dean tries to smile and says he’ll put it back on as soon as he’s done eating. Sam doesn’t look that reassured but it seems to help at least a little bit.

He can’t wait to get them back to Kansas and back at home where he and Sam can recuperate, but the fact of the matter is that they’re just too far out. So once it gets to be about dinner time he finds a motel in some little town.

Sam fiddles with his hands in his lap and Dean doesn’t know what to do. “Want me to get a room while you wait?” Dean offers.

Sam nods, and Dean doesn’t push. It’s not like they usually go together to get a room. It only takes one to check in, after all. So he parks the car and gets them a ground floor room and goes back out to Sam, who’s still sitting in the car.

Dean grabs Sam’s cane and hands it to Sam as he gets out, grabs their bags in his useable hand and they walk over to room nine. He has to put the bags down to open the door but it’s not like they’ve never been left on the dirty ground before. The door sticks a bit but Dean finally pushes it open, relieved that it’s seemingly normal and mostly clean, because Sam’s face is white and Dean wants to get him seated.

Sam sits on the bed and Dean kicks the bags into the room, searching through one for the pain pills he knows are in there.

He thrusts one into Sam’s hands and Sam swallows without protest.

“Guess it still hurts pretty bad,” Dean comments. 

Sam laughs at the understatement. “I’m missing a couple chunks of my leg, pretty much held together with stitches and glue,” he reminds Dean, as if Dean ever needed that reminder. “It’ll take a while.”

“So it’s not...not the cane?” Dean asks hesitantly, because it’s better to just ask and get this out in the open. “Why you don’t wanna leave the car.”

“It’s not...not the cane,” Sam admits. “I mean, it’s the pain, but yeah, I don’t like the cane either, Dean. But I’ll...I’ll be okay.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. He’s heard that before. Hell, he’s said that before. “Alright,” he concedes. “Just...keep talking to me. I’m here.”

Sam smiles a bit. “I know. Always are.”

Dean gets Sam leaning back against the pillow then finds the laptop. “What’cha thinkin’ for dinner?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “Pizza?” he asks.

Dean looks up pizza places in their area and grins. “Good choice,” he says. “Place like a mile away that delivers.”

They end up ordering a large, half pepper and onion, half hamburg, with a two liter of coke. Turns out the one thing missing from the motel room is glasses, so Dean supposes they’ll just drink from the bottle. It won’t be the first time.

The pizza shows up just as some random horror movie is about to begin on cable, and Dean pays the delivery guy and sets up on the bed, next to Sam, handing him a slice just in time to watch some guy lose his head with a truly terrific blood spray.

Sam starts wincing towards the end and Dean wishes he could give him more pain killers, debates ignoring the bottle warning and just giving Sam a few more to get him through the rest of the night, but he knows Sam won’t take them.

“Anything I can do?” Dean asks quietly.

Sam considers. “Can you help me clean up?” he asks. “I feel...gross.”

Sam can’t get his wound wet, so showers are out and Dean can’t imagine that the motel has a bathtub he could try to negotiate Sam into. But he smiles and says, “sure, lemme help you with those clothes.”

They get Sam naked soon enough, three hands between them, careful of Sam’s leg.

It’s wrapped in bandages so all that’s there to see is clean, unassuming white fabric, rather than the gory mess that Dean remembers. It’s cleaner now, disinfected and stitched and healing, and Dean knows this because he’s helped change the bandages. But he’ll never forget the mess he saw that night.

“Okay, wait here.” Dean goes to the bathroom and soaks a washcloth in warm water--well, lukewarm, really, but he guesses that’s the best he can expect from the motel sink. He brings it back out, holding it up so Sam can see.

“Hold still,” he instructs, and he begins to clean Sam with gentle strokes. He stops after a while to go re-wet the cloth before starting again, getting Sam’s arms, down to his hands, pressing against the palms in the way that makes Sam exhale shakily.

“Be easier if I had two hands,” Dean grumbles.

“Don’t you dare take that sling off,” Sam warns, eyes opening to look at Dean.

Dean grins. “I won’t. I know better.”

“You better,” Sam grouses before letting his eyes drift closed again.

Dean gets Sam’s chest and stomach next, down his thighs, careful at the knee. He goes down Sam’s calves and tickles at Sam’s feet, to which Sam grumbles a half-hearted protest.

He helps Sam flip over and repeats the process, moving from Sam’s shoulders all the way to his feet, gentle and slow, re-wetting the cloth as needed.

“Feel better?” Dean asks when he deems himself finished.

“Mhm,” Sam says, and carefully flips himself back over.

Dean looks Sam over and smirks, and Sam’s half-hard cock continues to fill under his gaze. “Guess you got a little more out of that than just getting clean.”

“Shut up,” Sam mumbles.

“Want me to take care of that?” Dean asks. He reaches out his good hand and strokes over Sam’s stomach, a light touch of just the fingertips, just enough to make Sam shiver.

Sam nods. “God, yes.”

Dean debates quickly over what to do, because he only has one hand available himself and he has to be careful of Sam’s leg, so very careful, because Sam is clearly not in an excessive amount of pain at this very moment and Dean wants to do his very best to prolong that situation. Neither he nor Sam are up for anything too athletic, so he makes his decision quickly and sits on the bed next to Sam, moving his fingers from Sam’s stomach to Sam’s thighs, the light, teasing touches continuing.

“Been too fucking long, Sammy,” Dean says quietly.

Sam snorts. “Surprised you didn’t ask for a handjob in the hospital. You usually do.”

Dean doesn’t say that the thought of Sam’s wounds, the memory of holding Sam’s hand as he laid there in agonizing pain, had done a pretty good job of turning him off to the idea of sex until he knew for sure Sam was on the mend. Instead, he makes a noncommittal grunt and says, “you’re not gonna last, are you?”

Sam’s already dripping a little and Dean hasn’t even really touched him yet, and they both know precisely how long this will last. Still, Dean drags it out a little longer, teasing his fingers against Sam’s thighs, hefting his balls and squeezing lightly, pushing a moan out of Sam. 

“Dean,” Sam says, trying to push his hips up in clear instruction.

“Easy,” Dean snaps, eyes immediately darting to Sam’s leg. “Jesus, Sammy, stay still. Lemme do the work, just hold still.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, settling back onto the bed, consciously keeping still so as not to put pressure onto his leg.

“There you go,” Dean encourages, and he finally, finally, wraps his fingers around Sam’s cock, stroking slow and a touch too light, drawing a frustrated grunt from Sam. Dean smiles a bit, wishing his other hand was available for use, wishing he could reach for Sam’s nipples right now, wishing he could heft Sam’s balls and stroke his cock, wishing he could do more than this. Then again, if he really had his way, he supposes he’d also want Sam able to buck and writhe under his touch, too. But they’re not getting that tonight. Tonight is about careful, satisfying a need in the least painful way possible.

So he starts to stroke in earnest, just how Sam likes it, good enough to draw a steady stream of whimpers from Sam.

“So beautiful,” Dean rasps, watching Sam’s face, eyes closed and lips parted as he draws close. “God, Sammy, you should see yourself. Getting close for me? Gonna come?”

It’s a question and an invitation rolled into one and Sam takes it as such, biting his lip as he comes, spilling over Dean’s fingers, and Dean strokes him through it.

Sam makes a whimpering noise that makes Dean pull away, and he immediately looks for the cloth to wipe his hand off with, but Sam says, “come closer.”

Dean does, not quite knowing what Sam’s after but knowing he’s probably going to like it a hell of a lot. Once he’s close enough, Sam flicks open his jeans and pulls down the zipper, working Dean’s jeans and briefs down Dean’s thighs, carefully tugging them down over Dean’s hard cock.

“Sit on my chest,” Sam orders. Dean hesitates and Sam rolls his eyes. “Can’t hurt my knee from my chest, Dean,” he says, voice still mostly patient. Dean obeys. It’s hard to negotiate, with one hand useless in its sling and the other covered in come, but he swings himself around until he’s straddling Sam.

“Good,” Sam encourages. “Now, rub that over your cock.”

Dean’s dick jerks a bit at the thought and he does as told, and he bites back a groan at the touch.

Sam takes Dean’s hand away after a while and licks the last traces of his own come clean. Dean stares, attention rapt as Sam’s pretty pink tongue darts around Dean’s palm and fingers, paying particular attention to the tiny traces still clinging to Dean’s wedding band, until he deems Dean clean enough and drops the hand.

“Now,” Sam instructs, “feed me your cock.”

Dean groans and immediately does as told, scooting forward and sliding himself between Sam’s glistening, open lips. He doesn’t go too deep, weary of choking Sam, but Sam seems to have other ideas, because he reaches his hands up and pushes against Dean’s lower back, pushing his deeper inside of Sam.

Sam’s hot and wet around him and Dean’s eyes almost roll back into his head already. Sam holds him there for a second, taking in the weight and taste of Dean against his tongue, before he gets his hands on Dean’s hips and begins guiding him, in and out of Sam’s mouth.

It’s not a great angle and Dean isn’t going to get much deeper than he already has been, but Sam has a talented tongue he’s putting to great use, licking the come off of Dean like Dean poured chocolate sauce all over himself or something, teasing along the vein in a way that has Dean biting his lip to keep from moaning loud enough to disturb their neighbors.

Dean knows he’s close, and he knows it’s embarrassingly quick, but he hasn’t so much as touched himself in over half a week and his gorgeous, mind-blowing husband is currently doing his best to suck Dean’s brains out via his dick, so he figures he’s due an excuse.

Trusting Sam to keep him steady, he reaches his hand down and tangles the fingers in Sam’s hair, tugging slightly, just enough to make Sam moan, and that moan is what sends Dean over the edge, coming down Sam’s throat with an unrestrained cry that their neighbors most definitely could hear.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean pants once he can see straight again, looking down at Sam who still has Dean’s cock in his mouth, nursing it gently until Dean pushes lightly at his face. Sam lets his head fall back against the pillows with a grin, Dean’s spent cock slipping from between his lips.

“Good?” Sam asks, self-satisfied smirk in place.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean repeats. 

Sam’s grin only grows at that. ‘Take that as a yes. Now, not to rush you, but you’re kinda crushing my lungs…”

Sam helps Dean off his chest and Dean flops onto the bed, on Sam’s right side so there’s no chance he’ll bump his leg. “Guess getting cleaned up wasn’t really worth it,” Dean says. “Considering you just got all sweaty again.”

“That’s okay,” Sam says quietly. “I feel better. A lot better.”

Dean smiles. “I’m glad, Sammy.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes before Dean gets himself up to clear up the pizza box and the two liter, to shut the TV that’s been playing quietly this whole time. He re-wets the wash cloth, cleans himself before ringing it clean and wetting it again, wiping Sam off, quickly this time but still as gentle as possible.

“Thanks,” Sam says, and his eyes are half-closed already and Dean feels hope that he’ll sleep, that he’s relaxed past the pain and might get some decent shut-eye in that night.

“No problem, Sammy,” he says. He doesn’t want to ask and remind Sam, but he has to. “Your bandage still good?”

“All set,” Sam promises, so Dean bends and kisses him quickly before putting the cloth back in the bathroom. He checks the latch on the motel room door once before shutting the light, pulling off his sling, then his clothes, as he returns to bed.

He slides in beside Sam and gets them both under the blanket, keeping his right arm close to his chest. 

“You should put the sling back on,” Sam mutters sleepily.

“Too itchy,” Dean says. “‘S fine for the night.”

Sam doesn’t argue, instead scoots closer to Dean.

“Careful,” Dean cautions.

“‘M fine,” Sam assures him, and Dean wants to laugh about what a worried set of mother hens they are, but instead he turns his head and kisses Sam’s temple.

“Get some sleep,” Dean murmurs.

“‘Kay,” Sam slurs, and it’s not long before they’re both asleep.

 

Dean picks up breakfast the next morning and they eat in the motel before getting back on the road. It’s a long but relatively uneventful drive.

Once Dean parks, he grabs their bags and hands Sam his cane once more. They have to stop repeatedly so Sam can rest and take weight off his leg, but eventually they make it to the main level and Sam sprawls across a couch while Dean drops their bags in their room down the hall.

Kevin stumbles out of his room. “Where’s Sam?” he asks.

“On the couch,” Dean says. “Pretty beat up. His knee is fucked.”

“How bad?” Kevin asks. He sees Dean’s face, the contemplation of how much to say, and asks shrewdly, “is it permanent?”.

Dean swallows. The kid is good. “Maybe,” he admits. “Maybe not. It should at least get better than this.”

Kevin nods. “You guys eat yet?” he asks. When Dean shakes his head, he says, “I’ll get you something, then, bring it to you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You cooking now?”

“We have leftovers,” Kevin says easily as he walks off towards the kitchen.

Dean drops the bags and returns to Sam, who has his eyes closed and a arm slung over his face. 

“You tired?” Dean asks.

Sam snorts. “Sitting in a car all day is an exhausting activity.”

Dean carefully moves them so he’s sitting on the couch, Sam’s head in his lap. He strokes Sam’s hair with his good hand. “Go to sleep, then. I’ll wake you when Kevin gets here with food.”

“Kevin’s cooking now?” Sam asks, eyes already drifting.

“Says there’re leftovers.”

“Mmm,” Sam makes a noncommittal sound and Dean knows he’s already mostly asleep.

Kevin comes back half an hour later with two plates, each with a sandwich containing what looks to be roast chicken. “You guys cook a chicken?” Dean asks incredulously.

Kevin snorts. “I bought it. You know, one of the pre-cooked ones at the Supermarket. Picked it up after class two nights back. Good thing too, otherwise Cas and I would’ve starved.”

Dean takes one plate and sets it on the side table, then takes the other. “Cas is here?”

“Somewhere,” Kevin says. “Haven’t seen him all day. He’ll come out when he gets hungry.”

“Guess so,” Dean says, setting the second plate aside too. “Gonna wake him up, I guess. He probably needs food more than sleep now.”

Kevin gives a half-hearted wave. “See you guys later.”

As soon as Kevin’s gone, Dean starts stroking his left hand over Sam’s face, murmuring, “Sammy, Sam...time to get up. Dinner time, Sammy.”

Sam groans and stirs, eyes flicking open to stare up at Dean who can’t help but stare back. It’s a terrible angle for a kiss and it hurts Dean’s back a bit, but he manages to get a quick kiss from Sam before straightening back up and helping Sam sit up next to him.

Dean hands Sam a plate before grabbing his own, balancing it on his lap as he picks up the sandwich and brings it to his mouth, taking a large bite.

Sam grabs his own sandwich and starts to eat. Dean manages to finish his, and Sam is over half done when they hear stumbling steps coming towards them.

Cas comes in, hair more disheveled than usual and eyes bleary.

“Dude, is that sex hair?” Dean asks, and Sam nearly chokes on his bite of sandwich.

Cas blinks at him. “No, Dean. I have been asleep.”

“All day? Kevin says he hasn’t seen you.”

“I was writing most of the night,” Cas explains before refocusing on them. “You’re hurt.”

“Mhm,” Dean confirms.

“We’ll be okay, Cas,” Sam reassures.

Cas looks troubled, like he always does when they’re injured. “I wish…” he says.

Sam nods. “We know. And it’s okay. Humans have been healing for millennia without angels’ help, Cas.”

Dean swallows, because humans have been dying for millennia too, and getting maimed and seriously injured. But he doesn’t say anything, just puts on a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, man, don’t worry,” he says. “We didn’t just keep you around for your mojo. We’ll heal up just fine.”

Cas doesn’t look fully reassured, but he drops the subject. “I came looking for food,” he explains.

“Kevin says there are leftovers,” Dean offers, and Cas nods and walks off.

Sam finishes his sandwich and then leans against Dean, and they sit there like that a bit, just resting together in the peace and quiet, on their couch in their home.

“We stink,” Dean finally offers. “We should probably get clean.”

Sam nods against Dean’s shoulder and groans. “That’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

Dean gently shrugs his shoulder, pushing at Sam’s head. “We’ll figure it out. Up an’ at ‘em, Sammy.”

Sam grabs his cane and stands, and Dean keeps pace with him all the way to the bathroom.

Sam sits on the closed toilet while Dean fiddles one-handed with the bathtub. Once he gets it hot, he grabs shampoo and sets it on the edge of the tub. 

He pulls off his clothes and his sling, leaving it draped over the counter. “C’mon, clothes off,” he says to Sam, who’s already tugging at his shirt.

Sam’s pants take an extra moment but he gets them off, then limps over to the tub.

“You first, so you don’t knee me in the head or something,” Dean jokes.

He lets Sam use his shoulder for balance while Sam climbs in, selling towards the back of the tub, his leg thrown over the side to keep it dry.

“God this is annoying,” Sam says. 

“Just til the stitches come out,” Dean offers, climbing in himself, careful not to jostle Sam’s leg.

He groans, the water just this side of scorching, feeling so good as he sinks into it.

Sam wraps his arms around Dean, careful of his arm, and leans forward far enough to nuzzle against his neck. “My turn to wash you.”

Dean thinks about protesting but nothing feels better against his skin than Sam’s hands, so he stays quiet, lets Sam lather up a cloth and stroke over his body, slightly scratchy cloth almost immediately followed by Sam’s gentle hands, running soothingly over his skin.

Sam’s efficient at this, always is. He doesn’t lose his gentleness by any means but he keeps moving, doesn’t slow down and tease, not when the point of the process really is to get Dean clean. He says Dean gets distracted too easily and Dean would take offense if he didn’t know that it was completely, inarguably true when it came to Sam. So Sam has him washed off quickly, skin warm and pink and scrubbed.

Sam’s trying to figure out how to get Dean’s hair clean without an overhead nozzle and without moving either of them, so Dean quietly promises, “I’ll get it in the shower tomorrow morning. Let’s get you clean, Sammy.”

He turns, carefully, so he can get at Sam’s skin, cleaning him off slowly and gently. He wets the cloth then rings it out, leaving it warm and damp as he trails it over Sam’s leg, careful of the bandages. 

“Your hair, we should wash,” Dean says. “You look like you’re pouring grease into it or something.”

“Any suggestions?” Sam asks, making a sweeping hand gesture to indicate the tight space.

Dean uses his right arm on the lip of the tub to pull himself up, then out of the tub, kneeling on the bathmat. “Scoot forward,” he suggests, and Sam does, slowly, carefully.

Dean tilts Sam’s head to get it wet, then works in shampoo, digging his fingers into Sam’s scalp, making his eyes go half-closed and little moans slip out of his throat. He washes Sam’s hair clean, then goes back to massaging Sam’s scalp. It’s harder one-handed, but Dean makes due, and, judging by Sam’s reactions, Dean is doing more than adequately. 

“You are--fuck--such a good husband,” Sam moans, making Dean grin.

“Always gonna treat you right, baby,” Dean teases. “Make you happy, make your toes curl with how good I am.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam huffs. “Shouldn’t’ve said anything, you’ve got a big enough head as it is.”

Dean laughs and keeps working his fingers, until he finally pulls away and gently smacks Sam’s shoulder. “Alright, up an’ at ‘em, before you turn into a prune.”

Dean helps Sam best he can, to get his bad leg back on the ground, to balance himself on the lip of the tub, to swing himself around and get both his feet back under him. Then he gets them towels. He’s already mostly dry himself but Sam accepts the towel, limps over to the counter so he can brace most his body weight on it and not his leg, and begins to dry off.

Once he’s completely dry and his robe on, Dean digs out their medical supplies. “Sit on the toilet,” he suggests. “Gotta re-bandage your leg.”

Sam acquiesces, holding out his injured leg and bending forward to unwrap the bandage.

Dean examines the damage, noting that it’s still clean and healing about as well as can be expected. The stitching still looks fine, and overall he thinks things, for once, are going well for them. So he nods, and Sam grabs a fresh bandage and wraps it back up.

Sam knots the towel tightly around his waist--somewhat of an accomplishment, Dean notes, to even own towels large enough for there to be spare material to tie a knot with after it makes it around Sam’s broad body--and starts walking for the door. Dean chucks their clothes in a hamper and grabs his sling, following Sam out the door.

They both end up sleeping on their backs, careful inches between them to at least make an effort at not bumping and jostling each other’s injuries in the night. Nevertheless, Dean reaches out his left hand, allowing the fingers to bump against Sam’s right hand, and they fall asleep like that, that small contact connecting them and grounding them.

 

Dean wakes up long past dawn the next morning, and it takes him a moment to realize why there’s another body in bed with him. Generally Sam would be long gone, would be on his run by now. 

Alternatively, if he were still in bed there would be a reason. He shifts, half-hard, because his body knows what waking up next to Sam’s sleep-warm form usually means and it apparently doesn’t get that waking up next to Sam recovering from an injury when he himself has a bad arm means something entirely different.

Sam is still asleep, and Dean looks him over, as relaxed as he ever gets, body lax. He doesn’t get a lot of chances like this, what with Sam’s freaky healthy habits having him up at the crack of dawn, way before Dean deems it time to get up. 

Sam’s mouth is open slightly, pink lips parted and Dean has the sudden urge to kiss them, to kiss them while he works his hands under the blankets and grinds the two of them together until they both feel fantastic, sticky and spent and oh-so good. It’s not exactly a strange urge and is something Dean would take full advantage of if it were two weeks ago and he found Sam in bed with him in the morning.

Dean groans and lets his head fall back against the pillows.

He can be careful. And he knows, right now, he and Sam have to be careful, because there’s a big enough chance that Sam’s knee won’t heal right as it is, nevermind if they start messing around, possibly damaging it more.

He slips his hand underneath the sheet. It’s his left hand, and it feels a little weird but Dean adjusts quickly. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s injured his right arm.

His wedding ring catches on the head of his cock and Dean swears softly. “Fuck,” he breathes, pre-come blurting at the head. He does it again. “Oh, fuck.”

Suddenly there’s a hand on his. “Starting without me?” Sam asks.

Sam takes Dean’s hand into his own and starts guiding his motions, and Dean’s eyes practically roll back into his head. 

“Good?” Sam asks teasingly, dragging Dean’s hand through the wetness leaking from the tip.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean gasps before coming to his senses. “Sammy, you need--be careful.”

“Shhh,” Sam soothes. “It’s fine, Dean. Promise. I’m being careful. Don’t worry and enjoy yourself.”

Dean nods and lets his eyes fall shut once more, letting Sam continue to guide his hand, and Dean thinks Sam is more perfect at getting him off then Dean  
himself is. 

“Grab the lube,” Sam says quietly, and it takes Dean a moment to get that through the fog if his mind, but once he realizes what Sam said, he scrambles to grab it from under the pillows. He has to disentangle his hand from Sam’s but Sam doesn’t let up for a moment, keeps stroking Dean even while Dean is twisted around, reaching for the little bottle.

Dean doesn’t need to be told, doesn’t need an invitation to bend his legs up and raise his ass, doesn’t need Sam to prompt him to spread lube over his fingers. He works one in quickly, moaning at the feel.

“Good,” Sam encourages. “So good, keep going. Make yourself come.”

Dean’s doesn’t need more encouragement than that, working in a second finger, stroking over his prostate until he’s panting a mixture of obscenities and professions of love to Sam.

He slips in a third finger and his own wedding ring bumps against his ass and that’s what sends Dean over the edge, practically screaming Sam’s name as he comes all over Sam’s hand.

It takes him a moment to refocus afterwards, and when he does he slips his fingers from his hole, lets his legs down and grabs at Sam’s hand. He sucks one finger into his mouth and licks it clean, just like he knows Sam likes.

He lets the finger slip free. “What can I do for you?” he asks, turning to look over at Sam only to realize Sam is licking the fingers of his other hand clean too.

He lets them slip free. “I have two hands,” he says simply, and Dean just gapes at him.

“You jerk yourself off watching me? Goddamn that’s hot,” Dean says.

Sam grins. “You need another shower,” he says.

“And you don’t?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “Have to wipe myself down for now. Too much work to bag my leg, too much work to do the bath thing.”

So they both make their way to the bathroom, Dean in his robe and Sam in the towel from the night before, and Dean starts the shower while Sam starts to clean himself up with a wash cloth. Dean gets in once the water is hot enough and hears the door close, signalling Sam leaving to go change.

He showers quickly, cleaning himself up and washing his hair. He likes showers, likes them a lot, and usually isn’t opposed to spending a few extra minutes in one, the hot water pouring over his skin. But he finds that the experience is infinitely more preferable with Sam present, and without him the shower is simply a means to get clean.

When he gets back to their room to change he realizes Sam isn’t there. He assumed Sam would wait for him, would probably sit in bed and read until Dean was done. He shrugs and digs out a pair of jeans. Sam is probably on the couch.

But it turns out he isn’t, and Dean doesn’t find Sam until he makes it to the kitchen. Sam is standing at the counter, scrambling eggs.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, and he knows it’s irrational to hear panic creeping into his own voice but he feels it. Rationally he can see that Sam has his weight braced against the counter, that he’s not straining his leg too much, that he’s clearly doing his best to be careful. But all he can think is that Sam is hurting himself.

Sam turns to him with a small smile, though. “Relax,” he says again. “Gotta learn how to work around this eventually, right? And I’m not hurting myself, Dean, honest. I’m taking care of it.”

Dean grumbles but walks closer, standing next to Sam. “What can I do?” he asks.

Sam considers. “Think you can make coffee with only one hand?” Dean nods, so Sam says, “then that, I guess.”

Dean gets the coffee ready and Sam cooks the eggs. He sets some bacon in for Dean and has a grapefruit sliced for himself already, and when he has the plates ready, he carries one over to the table, cane in his other hand. He clearly intends to go back for the second but Dean beats him to it, grabbing it so Sam can sit down.

“Alright?” Dean asks as he sets his plate down.

“I’m managing,” Sam says, and Dean nods, grudgingly acknowledging that that really is the best they can hope for right then. 

Dean digs into his food. Sam eats at a more steady pace, but he’s eating. Once they’re both done, neither of them get up, plates pushed forward and relaxing back into their chairs, and Dean thinks that this might be the best time to bring up what he’s been thinking about in the back of his mind.

“Sammy…” he begins, slowly, and Sam looks up at him intently. “Maybe, you should...just until you’re better...just so you have something to do...maybe...do you want to go back to school?”

Sam goes completely still. “I can’t,” he says. “I can’t go back to school. Sam Winchester is dead. And a mass murderer. I can’t.”

“I still have the papers for Sam Wesson,” Dean reminds him gently. “I’m sure we can get Charlie to make you a school transcript, so you won’t have to start over. Hell, you were almost done anyways, right? Bet Charlie could make it look like you graduated from Stanford. Bet she’s good enough that everyone would believe it, even Stanford. And you could...I don’t know, get a Masters, or a PhD, or whatever.”

Sam stiffens even farther. “What happened to just having something to do until I’m better? Because another degree is a hell of a lot longer than that.” Sam looks him hard in the eye, as if daring him to say the truth: that it might not be. Dean wisely keeps his mouth shut on the topic.

“Of course, Sammy, you could, you know, take one class. Kevin does those sometimes, right? The really short, accelerated ones. You could do one of those, just for fun, because you’re a big geek and you like that kind of stuff. But I thought...well, you are a big geek who likes that kind of stuff. Maybe you’d want to keep going. You can do both, you know. A hunter who happens to be a college student. You can do those online classes, take ‘em on the road with us.”

“Are you setting me up a fallback?” Sam asks bluntly. “Are you trying to give me something to do, in case my leg doesn’t get better?”

Dean swallows, because that’s not entirely what he is trying to do but it is a big part of it. “No, I just want...i just want you to be happy,” he says lamely. “But...would it be so bad? C’mon, Sammy, you love learning. And if you’re leg recovers fully, great. You can hunt and do the school thing and I think it will make you happy. If it doesn’t...well, we’ll deal with that if it happens, alright? But at least you’d have the school thing.”

Sam is quiet for a minute. “Don’t count me out just yet.”

Dean shakes his head. “Never will, Sammy.”

Sam is silent for another minute. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Dean is tempted to throw the sling in the trash but he knows better than to waste perfectly good medical supplies. Still, he’s glad to be done with it, so it’s with no small amount of glee that he buries it deep in their bathroom closet.

He flexes his arm and fingers, and it continues to twinge a bit, but not anything serious. He grins and goes off to find Sam.

He searches the library--Sam’s new favorite spot, playing research central for all of their hunting friends while he’s out of commission--and the TV room before finally making it to their bedroom, where he finds Sam sitting in bed, laptop balanced on his lap.

He’s never going to understand how someone clearly putting so little effort into their appearance can be so exceptionally attractive, but Sam makes it look effortless. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and sweats, the t-shirt riding up a tantalizing inch that makes Dean want to lick over the revealed skin. His hair is tied back in a little ponytail, loose tendrils escaping and somehow that is just more attractive. 

Dean closes the door and then leans against it, arms crossed. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam looks up, clearly startled, like Dean snuck up on him or something. “Dean! I, uh, didn’t hear you come in.”

Dean smirks and walks closer. “You watchin’ porn or something, Sammy?”

Sam flushes. “If you must know, I, uh...I emailed Charlie. About getting me a degree.”

Dean smiles. Sam hasn’t said a word about the school thing since they first talked about it, but Dean had a feeling he was thinking about it. “I’m glad,” he says, crossing the room and getting into bed with Sam.

He grins. “You get Charlie to make you into some super-star student? Bet she’ll give you a perfect four point oh.”

Sam ducks his head a bit. “I asked, uh, for pretty much the grades I had. My degree. So if she can do this, Sam Wesson will have graduated with a degree in classics, a concentration in pre-law. Three point nine, by the way,” Sam says.

Dean had honestly never known that. He knew his brother wanted to be a lawyer, knew he was smart enough to get himself a full ride at Stanford, but he’d never known all the rest, because he’d been so awful to Sam regarding Sam leaving for school for so long that by the time he’d come around, Sam had been unwilling to talk about it, completely tight-lipped.

“Genius,” he says affectionately. “So, what’re you going to do?”

“Not become a lawyer,” Sam says. “That’s done with, now. But, uh, other than that, I don’t know. Not really. I liked the classics thing. A lot. I mean, obviously. Wasn’t worth much to a lawyer but I could major in whatever I wanted. I picked it for a reason. So, maybe I’ll find a program, continue on with that.”

Dean kisses Sam’s temple. “I think that’s great, Sammy,” he says.

Sam smiles shyly. “Yeah?”

“Really fucking great,” Dean says solemnly. 

Unexpectedly, Sam reaches for Dean’s face and pulls him into a kiss. Dean’s surprised by the sudden movement but shakes off the shock quickly, getting one hand on the back of Sam’s neck and the other on his chest, sucking at Sam’s bottom lip.

Dean barely notices Sam sliding his laptop off of his lap, onto the side of the mattress, but he does realize it means that Sam wants far more than just a quick kiss.

Sam tries to move over him, hisses when it jars his leg a little too much.

“Careful,” Dean admonishes. Then he gentles his voice. “Lie back, Sammy. Let me.”

Sam lies back, head on the pillows, smiling as Dean moves so he’s hovering over him.

“Want you naked,” Dean says, “Can I?” Sam nods sharply, so Dean carefully works his pants off while Sam gets his shirt, leaving Sam’s body bare, miles of tan skin, and Dean can’t help it, lowers his face and kisses his way back up Sam, thighs, stomach, hands, chest, throat, until he’s once more pressing his lips to Sam’s. 

Sam’s hands pull at Dean’s shirt and Dean gets the hint, tugs his shirt off and then climbs off of Sam long enough to pull his pants off. He takes the time to grab the lube and set it out where he’ll be able to reach it before climbing back onto Sam and stealing another kiss.

Sam has his hands on Dean’s back, gripping at his shoulders tightly, trying to pull Dean even closer but Dean doesn’t move.

“Dean,” Sam complains, breaking the kiss, moving onto Dean’s jaw, his throat.

“Shhh,” Dean soothes. “Want you inside me. Wanna be inside me?”

The breath leaves Sam in a push. “Fuck, yes,” he says. Then, “Turn around. Let me watch you open yourself up.”

Dean hastens to do just that, and he can’t see it but he can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching hungerly as Dean pours lube onto his fingers, reaches back and begins to open himself, slowly, teasingly, in a show just for Sam.

Sam reaches up and strokes a hand down Dean’s spine, over the swell of his ass, then moves lower, past Dean’s fingers and down to cup Dean’s balls, rolling them gently, making Dean let out an obscenely long moan.

“Dammit, Sammy,” he grunts. “You keep that up and this will be over before we start.”

Sam backs off obediently, lets Dean finish opening himself up, watching Dean’s fingers disappear inside his own body.

Dean finally pulls his fingers free and turns himself back around. He slicks up Sam’s cock and doesn’t waste a moment, sinking down, filling himself.

He groans and lets his eyes fall closed. It’s been quite a while since they’ve done this, and right now it’s almost overwhelmingly good.

Sam’s hands find his hips, squeezing gently before rubbing his thumb across the indents. “Okay?” he asks softly.

“Way better than okay,” Dean says, opening his eyes. “God, you feel so good in me, Sammy.”

“Can make you feel even better,” Sam replies, and Dean knows it’s killing him to hold still, so he takes pity on him and begins to move, gently at first, working out the correct angle until the hands he’s using for balance against Sam’s chest are leaving red marks behind, until he’s panting Sam’s name.

Sam takes Dean’s cock in hand, stroking just right, his wedding band catching on the head, and Dean spares a brief thought for how amazingly brilliantly evil Sam is, knowing just how to break Dean into little pieces of absolutely wrecked pleasure, before he’s coming all over Sam’s hand, clenching tight around Sam’s cock, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

He feels Sam come inside him, the aborted hip-stutter that Sam absolutely could not stop, pushing deep into Dean as he comes.

He collapses forward onto Sam, still breathing heavy, and Sam drags his clean, still-shaky hand through Dean’s hair. 

“So, I’m amazingly brilliantly evil?” Sam asks, and Dean groans. He should have known his absolute lack of filter during sex would get him one day.

“You know it,” he says. “Take me apart so well, Sammy, pushing me right over the edge. No one was ever better at that than you.”

“Damn right,” Sam says.

Dean stays there for a moment before it starts to get uncomfortable. Grumbling, he gets off of Sam, standing up and grabbing his robe to go get a washcloth.

By the time he gets back, Sam is already dozing, and Dean makes a mental note to make a crack about how tired Sam gets when he doesn’t even do any of the work later. For now, he cleans himself and Sam up, then strips his robe back off and gets back in bed. 

He strokes his hand over Sam’s brow, soothing the last of the furrows out, and Sam relaxes completely. Dean rolls into Sam’s side, leg brushing Sam’s good leg, head on his chest, one hand across his stomach, and, as he closes his eyes, he breathes in Sam’s scent and relaxes farther. Right now, there is nothing on earth that could convince him that they won’t be just fine.


End file.
